


Drabble Stew

by Nori



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Compliant, Drabble Collection, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester, a bunch of AU stuff, and also now with blow jobs, and sastiel lite if you want to read it that way, it's just a big mix of stuff while i try to make myself write again, now featuring cas with a sword, special guest: cas being very cute around children
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-04-11 10:36:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 15,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19107943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nori/pseuds/Nori
Summary: Just what it says on the tin. A collection of all manner of unconnected drabbles.





	1. Evidence

**Author's Note:**

> I'm very very rusty and I'm trying to retrain my writing habit. Also, I'm a little scared of the spn fandom lmfao here we go. 
> 
> These are updated daily (hopefully, anyway) on [my tumblr](https://hrimthur.tumblr.com/tagged/30-day-make-writing-a-habit-again-challenge).

Dean shuffles into the kitchen intent on a cup of coffee at exactly 6:47. There’s no reason for him to be up, but Sam sets his alarm for 6:30 every day, and Dean hasn’t quite reached the point of wanting to murder him for the early morning wake up call. Yet.

Unseeingly, Dean acquires a plain white mug and pours himself a big cup of bitter life giving elixir. He holds it close to his face for a moment, breathing it in, before taking a sip. Another couple gulps later, Dean’s higher functions begin to come online and he is instantly met with the disaster zone next to the sink. Plates stacked high, empty plastic packaging wadded up, and something so viscous it’s solidified on it’s slow dripping path down the front of the counter.

With a grimace, Dean turns, fully intending to march down the hall and chew Sam out. The table - or rather, a jar of peanut butter on the table - stops him. The jar itself is nothing to look twice at, but the state it’s in… The plastic top is nowhere to be seen and a big glob of peanut butter is clinging desperately to the top of the jar and the thick, silver handle of a butter knife protrudes from the top.

Dean’s used to the mess. He lives with fucking animals. But this particular scene - an abandoned jar of peanut butter just waiting for a loaf of bread to come around - that is caused by a very specific animal. One that hasn’t been home for a while.

Invigorated, Dean very nearly jogs down the hallway to the common room (although he’d never admit, even held at gunpoint), stopping just outside to run reconnaissance. Sam is there, of course, sipping at his coffee and reading something. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just kitty corner to him however, is Cas, scowl on his face as he silently accuses the peanut butter sandwich in his hands of the most heinous of crimes.

Biting back a grin, Dean stomps into the room. Like his radar has just been pinged, Cas’ head swivels around and he smiles. Just a closed mouth, barely there thing, but a smile nonetheless.

“Hello Dean,” he says, practically ecstatic if the subtle lilt in his voice is anything to go by.

“You two are fucking slobs,” Dean announces. He’s grinning so wide, his face hurts.


	2. I'm here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quintessential horse AU. There's always got to be one.

“Cas?” Dean pokes his head into the dim, cool aisle. “Hey, Cas!”

“I’m here, I’m here,” Cas calls back, harried, as he side steps through the narrow tack room door, arms laden with saddle, bridle, and various other accoutrements. Dean could sort out all the pieces if he felt like it, but then he might have to admit to caring about - _shudder_ \- English.

Dean trots down the aisle, finally yanking off his sunglasses and lifting them up to sit on the brim of his wide, worn hat. As his eyes adjust, he realizes Cas isn’t wearing the usual tight, stretchy beige pants and knee high boots. It’s not much of a loss though. Not when Cas is wearing a pale, worn-soft pair of jeans (that, on second glance, might actually belong to Dean anyway) under his navy blue leather chaps.

As Cas pauses to set his load down next to an empty stall, Dean hovers behind him, unabashedly checking out his ass. Hey, in his defense, it’s a good ass, covered in Dean’s jeans and framed by the tight pull of the leather chaps.

“Alright,” Cas wheels on him. “What are you doing here?”

Dean rocks back on his heels, both hands raised in a silent proclamation of innocence. He has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. “What do you think I’m doing here?”

“Interrupting me,” Cas informs him blandly. “I have to school-”

Taking Cas’ answer as advice, Dean hooks a finger through the strap lying just under the button of his jeans and hauls him close mid-sentence. With his free hand, he pushes his cowboy hat up off his forehead so it won’t get squashed and leans in for a kiss. Cas releases a muffled squawk but gives in with a slow sigh, sliding his hands around Dean’s hips and dipping into his back pockets.

“This,” Dean murmurs, breath hot against Cas’ jaw when they pull apart, “is way better than schooling _any_ horse, Cas.”

Rolling his eyes, Cas yanks his hands free of Dean’s pockets and gives him a firm slap on the ass. “But I distract you when you’re training with Sam _one time_ and it’s the end of the world,” he snorts over his shoulder, striding down the aisle with purpose.

“Cas,” Dean whines, scurrying after him and wrapping his arms around his waist, pressing damp kisses along his neck. Cas is pliant against him, so Dean knows he’s not actually irritated yet. “We had a rodeo that weekend.”

“And I have an event this weekend,” Cas fires back, reaching back to pinch at Dean’s sides. Dean lets him go before he starts to feel too clingy (and before Cas can get mad at him), and Cas makes a break for the shaft of light pouring through the half opened doors at the end of the aisle. “You’re welcome to watch, though,” he trails over his shoulder. 

He doesn’t wait for Dean’s answer, but that’s fine. They both know Dean’s staying.


	3. Funeral

“Dean,” Sam chokes, swiping his fingers across his cheek. Cas lays a bracing hand on his shoulder, face grim. Swallowing back the wave of sound rolling up his throat, Sam gives Cas a nod. “I’ll miss your stupid face,” he admits, voice reedy, “but at least I’ll be able to listen to my own music in the Impala.”

“I can ride shotgun,” Cas intones. They share weak smiles, determined to carry on through the misery.

“You guys fucking suck,” Dean howls, hurling a stray pen at the back of Sam’s head. “I bet shifter me in St. Louis got a better funeral than this.”

“Sometimes,” Sam continues, voice wavering with suppressed laughter now, “it’s almost like he’s still here.”

“I’m replacing you both,” Dean huffs, crossing his arms and flopping back on the couch like an overgrown toddler.

“With who?” Cas asks, turning from this sham of a funeral to stare at Dean with innocent curiosity. “I wasn’t aware you knew two other people who could stand in for us.”

Sam snickers, trying with little success to make it sound like tears.


	4. Puppy love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I straight up did not finish this one oops oh well

Sam’s voice echoes down the hallway, commanding and tickled all at once. “Sit!” His order is followed by the excited click-clack of nails on hard floor and the jingle of metal tags shaking against each other. There’s an anticipatory silence, noticeably fragile, even rooms away. “Good girl,” Sam crows. More jingly tags and a gleeful little puppy yip.

“Ugh,” Dean groans dramatically, slumping in his chair, mediocre sandwich gladly forgotten. “I can’t believe this.”

Castiel doesn’t bother to pretend he’s paying Dean any attention, still determinedly reading the ingredients on a package of potato chips. “Sam seems rather pleased,” he mutters absently. “Mercedes’ training is coming along well.”

“ _Mercedes_ ,” Dean repeats venomously. “American cars not good enough for you, Sam? You’ve got to name her after a yuppie German maker?”

“It was my understanding,” Cas says, setting down the chips and turning a much too serious look at Dean, “that the dog was already named Mercedes when Sam acquired her.”

“That’s not the point, Cas,” Dean insists, leaning forward in his seat to slice his palm through the air. “He should have renamed her. She can’t be a Winchester with a name like _Mercedes_.”

“I believe your brother has begun calling her Mercy for short,” Castiel informs him, casual. Too casual. Dean tenses. “Given everything you have fought and died for, I find the name quite fitting for a Winchester.”


	5. Gloves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never bothered to finish this one on tumblr so if you happen to go looking for it there, uhh... sorry no dice.
> 
> I feel like I often write Dean too mean but then I watch the show and like he is actually kinda that mean? I'm working on the balance of good soft boy Dean and actual asshole Dean sorry

The wind whips past them, sending snow dancing and sparkling in the orange of the street lights. Dean hunches into his jacket, hands shoved in his pockets. It doesn’t help much. He still feels raw and drained, like each wintery gust that blows through is pulling the very life from him. 

“Cold tonight,” Sam murmurs beside him, adopting the same hunched shoulder posture. 

“Winter sucks,” Dean snarls, wishing he had a hat. Or some damn gloves. Sam makes a small mewling sound, commiserating. “We are _never_ doing this again,” Dean huffs adamantly. 

“It’s kind of cute though.” Sam blows into his cupped hands, trapping warm air against his fingers. 

“What’s cute?” Dean snorts. “He’s like a billion years old. It’s about time he take some initiative.”

“Whatever, man.” Sam rolls his eyes. “Why’d you bother coming along if that’s how you feel about it?”

Dean grumbles wordlessly, because the only answer he’s got is that it _is_ kinda cute. Cas, all bright smiles as he tromps around in the snow, watching the ridiculous light displays and pausing to listen to carollers with that single minded intensity he’s still carrying around with him. It’s downright heartwarming, in fact. It’s almost enough to relieve some of the guilt Dean feels when he remembers that Cas’ life is shit largely because of him and Sam. 

The door opens, bells on the cheery wreath jingling merrily, and a herd of carollers depart, chatting amicably as they cradle styrofoam cups of cocoa. Cas follows on their heels and though his part in the whole shebang remains a mystery, he looks content with his steaming cup. He strolls up to them, unconcerned with the carollers marching off down the sidewalk. 

“Hot chocolate?” Sam asks. At Cas’ nod, he grins. “Good call on a night like this.” 

“Yeah, it’s fucking freezing,” Dean grunts with an impatient look for Cas. “You done?”

“Yes,” Cas replies simply. He thrusts his cup at Sam, who takes it haltingly, looking bewildered. Hands newly freed up, Cas starts digging through the depths of his pockets. 

“You don’t,” Sam starts, stumbles, valiantly pushes on. “This is yours, Cas. You don’t need to give it to me.”

“I think you’ll appreciate it more than I,” Cas says, squinting as he wriggles his fingers. “I wasn’t out here waiting n the cold.”

“Oh,” Sam exhales, short with surprise. He hides the start of a sunny smile behind the rim of the cup. “Thanks Cas.”

Cas nods absently, eyes narrowing further, until he comes to a sudden stop. His eyes light up, like a pair of neon signs shouting “Got It!” and he yanks his hand free of his pocket with a flourish. Clenched in his fingers are a pair of bright green and dark purple knitted mittens. He holds them out toward Dean.

“Those are hideous,” Dean says gravely. 

“Are they?” Cas gives them a look over before shoving them pointedly at Dean again, clearly not giving even a rat’s ass about Dean’s aesthetics. They engage in a stare off over it, but it’s obvious from the get go that Cas is going to win this one. 

“Where did you even get these?” Dean whines, gracefully conceding defeat and shoving his hands into the mittens. They’re stupidly soft. 

“You don’t like the cold,” Cas shrugs, taking a neat 90 degree turn away from the question. He moves off down the street then, heading directly toward the large black shadow that is the Impala in the distance. 

“You get hot chocolate and I get _these_ ,” Dean complains, holding his hands out in front of him with disdain. He starts following after Cas automatically. 

“Yeah,” Sam laughs, slurping at his drink with relish. “I think he likes us, Dean.”

Dean rubs his fingers against the inside of the mittens, testing the soft material against his rough skin. _Feelings’ mutual_ he thinks, biting down on the warm feeling unfurling in his chest. “Poor bastard,” he says aloud.


	6. Blackboard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why does Mass Effect happen to good people?

The captain taps his chalk pencil against his hasty drawing on the jagged slab of dark metal or thin slate or… whatever scrap he’d scrounged up for this. He’s plotting out some inane strategy that none of the soldiers assigned to his training squad care about, judging by their complete lack of attention. Castiel taps his fingers against the helmet tucked under his wrist, keeping his features schooled even as his mind wanders. It’s no surprise to him that his eyes turn unfailingly to Winchester, mindlessly fiddling with his pistol while he tips his head close to Harvelle, swapping insults, presumably.

“What’s with the blackboard, man,” Winchester pipes up, relying on the training uniforms’ anonymity to keep him from getting into trouble. 

“Seriously, I feel like I’m in middle school,” Harvelle adds.

“Middle school a hundred years ago,” another man, to Winchester’s far side, drawls. Castiel can’t tell exactly, but he’d hazard a guess that this is the infamous Benny Lafitte that Winchester is always going on about.

The trio manage to look smug, even standing perfectly still and hidden behind their heavy helmets. The captain jerks to his feet, stumbling over his reprimands and turning redder by the moment. Castiel forces his spine just a little straighter, and steps forward, hoping the N7 stamped on his chest will give him the extra weight he needs to calm his superior.

“Captain,” he interjects, carefully respectful. The captain turns to him, face purpling with barely concealed rage.

“ _What_ , Commander,” he snaps.

Castiel remains impassive. “I could remove these troublemakers for you,” he offers, even though he knows the captain still doesn’t know which three trainees to foist his blame on. “A few more drills should teach them some respect.”

While the captain mulls this over, Castiel cants a look at Winchester. He’s got his hip cocked, helmet tipped like he’s got his chin lifted. Castiel can practically see the cocky grin on his face. Harvelle, beside him, is much more closed off. She, at least, is aware that getting pulled out of lineup by the presiding N7 officer is probably not a good thing.

Finally, the captain agrees, muttering under his breath as he turns back to his poor planning session. Castiel raises his free hand to perform a sort of informal move out signal. “Harvelle, Winchester,” he commands. He’s not positive the third person is Lafitte, but he’s willing to take the shot and hope for the best. “Lafitte,” he adds. He barely manages to resist smirking when the man beside Winchester slumps in defeat, just a little. “Let’s move.”


	7. Muse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of Ch 6. More Mass Effect AU because this is the kind of person I am, I guess.

Cas bounces on his haunches once before dive rolling across open space and tucking his shoulder in tight against another barrier a few meters ahead. The overhead turret snaps toward him, whining as it spools up and spits bullets at the floor behind him. Even in a crouch, he moves with a controlled grace, pistol at the ready and breath steady through his helmet radio.

Lightning quick, he pokes his head over the barrier, scouting out his next stop, and explodes over the top, sliding on one hip to the other side. He sprints forward, skidding into cover behind a wall. The turret tracks toward him, still laying down fire. After a few long seconds, it releases a low groan and slows to a stop.

With a deep, steady breath, Cas bursts out of cover and races toward the turret, keeping just a hair’s breadth ahead of the stream of bullets. As he clears the turret’s effective range, he comes to a stop and turns to stare across the training room at them.

“See?” Cas says, his voice ever so slightly smaller through the radio than it is in person. “Very simple.”

Benny huffs his disbelief. Jo folds her arms, turning to look at Dean. Her expression is hidden under her helmet, but Dean can practically feel her accusatory stare.

“Yeah, we see,” he speaks up. He’s met with an expectant silence and Jo turns up the accusation behind her stare. “Sir,” he tacks on, winking despite Cas not being able to see him. It’s probably a very bad idea to be flirting with a senior officer, but Dean can’t quite stop himself. It’s not like Cas is going to report him.

“Thank you for volunteering, Winchester,” Cas says, voice even and unimpressed. “You can start whenever you’re ready.”


	8. Magic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is because of and was written to [this video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=45brzDJKZ3o&t=1s). Warnings for lots and lots of bright, flashing lights.

“This is some form of magic,” Castiel announces gravely.

Dean quirks a brow at him, turning to Sam with “what the hell is he talking about?” written all over his face. Sam smiles, perfectly aware of what Cas is watching so intently. Maybe it makes him a big softy, but he genuinely likes getting to see Cas develop interests of his own, free of the weight of his or Dean’s influence.

Symphonic metal bands are definitely probably free of any Winchester influence.

“Whatcha watchin’ there, bud?” Dean asks, in that ever so slightly condescending way he has. Sam frowns at him, lips pressed together disapprovingly.

“It is a song,” Cas says. “Performed by a band called Nightwish.”

Dean perks up slightly, and Sam internally cringes back. The fallout from this will be worse if Dean thinks this is something he might be able to share with Castiel. For all that Dean only listens to like three different bands and pretends that all other musicians are inferior, he still considers himself the musical brother.

“Oh yeah?” Dean asks, dropping his feet to the floor as he leans forward in his chair. Cas nods, turning the laptop slightly, clearing offering to share his video if Dean is so inclined. After a moment’s deliberation, Dean rises to his feet and scoots around the table, dragging a chair close to Castiel. Sam watches surreptitiously, holding his breath as Dean sets his eyes on the screen.

Sam can picture it. Lots of long hair being thrashed around by headbangers, black leather as far as the eye can see, and a multitude of bright, flashing lights. He watches Dean closely as his older brother freezes up part way into his new chair, staring in wide eyed shock at Cas’ choice in musical artists.

“Uh,” Dean stutters, and Castiel plucks an earbud from his own ear and presents it to Dean with wordless trust. Sam glares at Dean, thinking as many harsh warnings at his brother as he can, but Castiel’s offering seems to be enough on its own. With a little nod, Dean takes the offered earbud and plops into the chair.

Castiel returns to staring at the video with devoted fascination, and after a few long moments of watching Cas’ profile, Dean turns his focus to the youtube video too. While they watch the band perform, Sam watches them. He watches them lean imperceptibly closer and closer, until their shoulders are touching and their heads are tipped close. He watches as Cas finally lets the crown of his head lean against Dean’s and as Dean’s fingers start to drum the song’s rhythm on the table.

Maybe, Sam thinks, Cas wasn’t wrong. Maybe it really is some form of magic.


	9. Clean

“Hold still,” Dean mutters gruffly, dabbing with the damp cloth at the blood caked in Cas’ hair. The gash in his scalp is wide and long and bright red. Dean bites the inside of his cheek to keep the worried questions at bay. What happened? Where’s your grace at? How long were you planning to walk around like this?

He doesn’t bother to ask. He sort of doubts he’d get an answer anyway.

“It was my own fault,” Cas admits on a soft exhale, as if he knows that Dean is aching for some kind of explanation. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Hey, whatever man,” Dean says, scraping dried blood off Cas’ temple. “Accidents happen.”

“I didn’t want to bother you,” Cas offers. His voice is strong and even, but Dean can see the misery crumpling his features.

“You’re not bothering us,” Dean snaps, harsh with frustration. In a world where Dean could be honest with himself, he might even admit that most of the frustration is directed at himself. His inability to show Cas how important he is to both Winchesters coupled with the knowledge that, in Cas’ current position, Dean would be equally as uncomfortable accepting help.

Cas just sighs, deep and heavy. Scrubbing at the blood caked on Cas’ face, Dean bites his tongue. He counts backwards in his head, breathing out through pursed lips, visualizing the bad thoughts leaving with his breath. It doesn’t work, not really, but at least he can say he tried.

With the blood washed from Cas’ skin, Dean turns to rinse the cloth in the sink, watching pink water swirl down the drain. Cas’ shoes scuff against the floor as he fidgets.

“What do you think?” It’s that performative voice he sometimes tries on, when he’s making a real effort to be more human, or something. “Will I live?”

It’s not quite gallows humor, but it’s in the same realm. Dean’s shoulders relax in a rush. The stress and frustration pour out of him on a rough laugh.

“Today?” Dean jokes back, turning to face his old friend. His dearest friend, despite the layers and layers of hurt and betrayal they’ve stacked upon their connection.

Cas gives him a tentative smile and Dean lets himself smile back.


	10. Secret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More of the Horse AU because I know what I'm about. And I'm addicted to [helmet cam videos](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UV3P9y_5644).

Dean leans close to his phone screen, listening to the staccato breathing and pounding hooves and rushing wind through his shitty, tinny sounding earbuds. He nearly finds himself rocking to the rhythm, half a smile on his face as he listens to the rider in the video chatter at his horse. Dark tipped ears flick back and forth, reacting to the voice in the video. 

He’s so involved, he doesn’t notice Sam walk up to him until a big, meaty palm smacks into his shoulder. 

“Sam!” Dean shrieks, practically throwing his phone in his haste to hide the video he’s been so lost in. “ _Jesus_ dude!”

Sam chokes back laughter, face twisting with hideous amusement. “Were you watching a helmet cam?” 

Dean ducks his chin, hiding his reddening cheeks under the shadow of his hat brim. “No,” he grunts, way too gruff. Sam’s going to call him out, that bastard. 

“Eventing is kinda outside your wheelhouse, Dean,” Sam snickers. Voice filled with vindictive glee, Sam keeps picking at it. “And that was one of Cas’ videos wasn’t it? Don’t you hate that guy?”

Dean maybe wants to scream. Or punch Sam in the face. Because, yeah _okay_ , maybe he’s cultivated the idea that he can’t stand Cas. And right yeah, maybe they haven’t had the best interactions the few times they’ve met. So yes, it’s possible that Dean has tried to hide his stupid ugly teenage boy crush on Cas behind a bunch of macho manly bullshit. 

So what if all of Cas’ breathless, often sarcastic but sometimes downright genuinely elated chatter at his horses makes Dean’s heart skip a beat. Let a dude live, _damn_.

“I wasn’t watching anything,” Dean snarls, jerking to his feet. He keeps his chin tipped down so he can continue hiding his blush under the brim of his cowboy hat. “Why are you even here?”

Sam coughs to cover his amusement. “Well, Dean, I could train by myself, but the event is called _Team_ Roping.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean mutters, shoving his phone back into his pocket definitively. “You need to train, I get it.” 

Sam rolls his eyes, but nods, obviously appeased just to be getting his way. “Yeah, you got me,” he agrees flatly. “You got me good.”


	11. Superstition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this in an illness induced, sleep deprived haze so idk. #pray4sam I guess

Sam was tromping across the parking lot, two coffees balanced in one ginormous hand, when he stooped to pick something up. He smiled a bit to himself, before he sidled up beside the Impala. Gassing her up, Dean had raised an eyebrow.

“Found a penny,” Sam announced cheerfully and offered Dean the top most coffee.

“Wow,” Dean said flatly, took the cup and immediately popped the top off it so he could get blasted in the face with steam. “Don’t spend it all in one place.”

“All day long, I’ll have good luck,” Sam had informed him, snotty little brother voice in full effect before he’d thrown himself into the passenger seat.

That was where the stupid superstition was supposed to end.

But then at lunch, Sam’s fancy fish tacos with the avocado and _lime crema_ or what-the-fuck-ever came out of the kitchen with the wrong side, and as apology, Sam got his whole meal for free. Dean’s overcooked burger with droopy fries was still full price.

An interview with an attractive widow landed Sam a plate of fancy cookies, a cappuccino straight from the recently deceased’s snazzy cappuccino maker, and a phone number. Dean got a water in a hard plastic cup.

Sam found a $50 bill lying forlornly in the middle of a completely vacant parking lot.

The TV in their crappy motel room that refused to answer to Dean’s silent pleading jumped to bright, beautiful, technicolor life after barely a brush of Sam’s hands.

The M&M ice cream swirl monstrosity Sam just had to have after dinner was “not mixed well” the first time around, so it was replaced, free of charge, with smiles all around. Dean wanted to complain about that, but he got the first one out of it, so it wasn’t _that_ big a deal.

And then Cas rolled up to their motel in his ugly brown car and he and Dean stood too close together, staring too hard, and filling the room with all that barely restrained _feeling_ that neither of them was particularly good at doing anything about. Sam was resigned to yet another endless stretch of time, watching his brother and his brother from another dimension doing their _thing_ , but then the motel clerk had come knocking, demanding and placating both. The room needed to be cleared for _reasons_ and “oh I’m so sorry I don’t have any doubles left but can I offer you two separate rooms.”

Sam, lying on his double bed, in the middle of his empty room completely devoid of any idiots with too many feelings between them and not enough words spoken on the subject, flipped his penny up and down off the end of his thumb.


	12. Fantasy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol Charlie is alive in all my headcanons
> 
> also idk how to write Charlie but I wish I could figure it out because she's great ok bye

“Okay,” Charlie chirps, dropping her stack of books on the table. Despite its solid construction, Dean is fairly certain it trembles under the weight. “I cannot allow my new best friend Cas to go a single minute longer without discovering the beauty and joy of Dungeons and Dragons.”

Cas looks around the table, just a touch wide eyed. Sam politely swallows a laugh, but Dean leans into it, biting off a grin. “Charlie’s right,” he announces. “It’ll be good for you, Cas.”

Dean thumps Cas’ back hard enough to rattle his own teeth, although it clearly has no effect on the angel.

“I don’t know what Dungeons and Dragons is,” Cas admits begrudgingly, turning his narrow eyed stare from Dean to Charlie. As if concerned he’s about to be teased, Castiel hurries to add, “I know _what_ dungeons and dragons are, but I’m not sure how that pertains to the situation.”

“It’s a game,” Sam interjects, saving Cas from any further misery. Sam always was the nice one.

“That’s right!” Charlie practically throws herself into the seat next to Cas, reaching across the table for the topmost book. “You get a group of friends together,” she pauses to gesture around the room demonstratively, “and you all pretend to be great heroes, out saving the world from monsters and drinking ale and making out with all the hot ladies you save.”

Charlie’s finishing blow is an exaggerated wink that has Dean choking on laughter. Castiel, however, just blinks.

“It is a game,” Cas repeats slowly, like he’s trying to make sure he’s really got the gist of it down, “where you fight monsters and save the world?”

“Uh huh,” Charlie nods. “Pretend to, anyway. We don’t need to go fight real monsters when we’re just trying to have fun, you know?”

Castiel slants a skeptical look at each of them in turn, like he’s pretty sure this is an elaborate hoax and any second now, someone’s going to drop the punchline.

“I know it can be difficult to visualize,” Charlie tells him, flipping open the book with purpose, “but I swear, it’s like the most fun you can have with your best pals.”

Cas gives Dean another little questioning look, and Dean grins, nodding toward whatever passage Charlie is quickly summarizing for them.

“Will you play too?” The question is directed at Dean, although Cas turns after a moment to include Sam as well.

“Of course they’re playing,” Charlie scoffs. She drags her finger through the air, pointing from Dean to Sam to herself, enclosing Cas in the invisible loop she’s just drawn. “Best pals? Most fun?”

After a moment, Castiel nods. “I see,” he says quietly. He leans in to absorb Charlie’s geek knowledge, a crooked smile blooming on his face.


	13. Test

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> college au. you can pry punk!cas+geek!dean from my cold dead hands

Dean gnashes on the end of his pen, trying to pick the pertinent information out of the wall of text that is Practice Question 5. He checks the equation he’s pretty sure will get him the answer, makes a mental note of all the variables present, and tentatively identifies F as “35?” before stopping. Heaving a sigh, Dean shoves away from his desk and turns sideways in his chair.

Cas is sitting on the edge of his bed, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. His stupid mohawk is extra blue today, and it makes the blue of his eyes even more unreal than usual. He looks up at Dean’s staring, an eyebrow raised in question. The stud in his lip is caught between his teeth.

“ _Ugh_ ,” Dean groans, dropping his forehead onto the back of his arm. “Don’t distract me. I’ve gotta study.”

After a moment of indignant silence, Cas says, “I wasn’t doing anything.” When Dean only grumbles in response, Cas snorts a little laugh. “Nerd.”

“Shuddup,” Dean demands weakly, patting at his desk blindly until he finds his giant eraser. He hurls it at Cas, but it goes wide and smacks into the wall instead. “Why are you here anyway? Don’t you have an establishment to tear down? Government to overthrow?”

“No, that’s on my calendar for tomorrow,” Cas snorts, scooping up Dean’s wayward eraser and lobbing it back at him. “Today I’ve got nothing to do besides keep you from studying.”

“And you’re not even doing it in the sexy way,” Dean sighs. Cas gives him a look that clearly asks “how is that my fault?” before pushing to his feet with determination.

“It’s almost like you want me to distract you,” he says idly, gazing down his nose at Dean. Despite the studs and the hair and the attitude, Dean knows that Cas would never hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it. Still, with Cas looming over him, the bad boy Dean never knew he wanted, a little thrill slips down his spine.

“What gave you that idea?” Dean winces at how damn breathy his voice is. Falling all over himself around Cas, _as per usual_.

“Dean,” Cas says lowly. His features are cold, but his fingertips through Dean’s hair are startlingly soft. Dean feels instantly stupid and pathetically needy.

“I can study later,” he says, urgent. Cas’ fingers curl against his jaw and Dean stretches up as Cas leans down.


	14. Tease

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> watch me doggedly avoid the sexy drabble this prompt could have inspired

“So,” Sam says, drawing the sound out for an obscene amount of time. Dean drags his eyes away from Cas to give Sam an annoyed look. Sam just grins, wicked. “You and Cas?”

Dean freezes. Like it’s just been released from a slingshot, his heart pitches into his throat and plummets down into his stomach. He’s a good liar, even face to face with Sam, but Dean finds his throat clicking as he swallows his immediate terror.

“What about me n’ Cas?” He asks it with just the right amount of “god you’re so annoying Sam” mixed with “what the ever loving fuck are you talking about” to throw Sam off his scent.

Sam smirks, like the goddamn Cheshire cat. “Uh huh. Sure, Dean.”

Maybe he had the ratio of “you’re so annoying” to “what the ever loving” off? Or maybe Sam is just trying to lead him, getting the answer he wants instead of the truth.

Even if the answer he wants kinda is the truth.

“Whatever, dude,” Dean scowls, picking up his coffee cup and holding it close defensively. “Who asked you?”

“You can deny it all you want,” Sam shrugs, smug like he’s ten years ahead of Dean and has already witnessed the wedding. Smug is bad. Smug means Dean is missing some vital piece of information.

“There’s nothing to deny,” Dean cries. There’s everything to deny.

He throws a balled up napkin at Sam. It falls to the floor after a really solid deflection.

“That’s not how _I_ would interpret Cas’ response,” Sam offers casually. Dean’s fingers squench around his mug. It’s not that Cas is a bad liar per se, it’s just that he’s not as well versed with on the fly bullshit as Sam is. His forte is more cryptic mysticism and avoidance.

“Sam,” Dean growls warningly. This has gone far enough. Time to stop the ride.

“I’m just saying,” Sam says easily, “I can only be best man for one of you, so you’d better start thinking about the wedding now.”

Dean calmly sets his coffee mug safely in the center of the table, where it won’t be disturbed, and leaps at Sam.


	15. Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me at the start of this drabble: oh, this isn't so bad i almost like this??  
> me at the end of this drabble: this is terrible i'm cutting my fingers off so i can never write again
> 
> you can never take cas' ugly beige cars vehicles away from me

“C’mon Baby,” Dean pleads, turning the key and listening to the engine whine, but not turn over. “I’m sorry, girl, I know it’s hotter than Satan’s asshole out here but you gotta start for me.”

Baby does not start. She sputters weakly until Dean lets the key turn back. Sam gives him a desperate look and Dean can’t even blame him. It’s sweltering inside the car. They’ve barely gotten into the seats - Dean hasn’t even shut his door yet - and already his back is slick with sweat.

“What’s wrong with it?”

Dean ignores Sam’s disrespectful tone, dropping his forehead to his steering wheel glumly. “Sounds like the battery,” he groans. With great effort, Dean hauls himself out onto the blistering tarmac. A few feet behind Baby, the Ford idles steadily, Cas’s arms folded over the edge of the door as he watches impassively.

“Lucky bastard,” Dean sniffs, popping the hood to stare into the guts of the Impala. Apparently the angel _and_ his stupid truck are impervious to the heat. He makes a cursory effort to check over the engine, but it’s mostly for show. He’s pretty sure the battery is fried. With the generous application of some jumper cables and Cas’ truck, they should be good to go, at least for now. “Fuckin’ Arizona,” Dean sighs.

Turning up the swagger to mask his wounded pride, Dean saunters down the length of the Impala to pull up beside the truck. Cool air pours out of the open window, making Cas’ hair sway to and fro. It feels so good, Dean squeezes in close, sliding his arms over the lip of the door. His skin is melting right off his bones, so he doesn’t even care that he’s essentially cradling Cas’ shoulders between his forearms.

“Car trouble?”

Dean snorts. He feels his own exhalation bounce off Cas’ cheek and come back to hit his chin. Their eyes meet and Dean realizes that they’re pushing the limits of even their weird boundaries. Swallowing thickly, eyes dropping without his consent to Cas’ mouth, Dean nods.

“Yeah,” he wheezes. Embarrassed by the breathy quality of his voice, Dean clears his throat and tries again. “Yeah,” he grunts, overcompensating and sounding way too gruff. He forces his eyes up and makes himself pull away from the door a bit so maybe a few more cylinders in his brain will fire. “The batteries toast. We gotta jump her.”

“Okay,” Cas says simply, turning to throw his truck into drive. Dean remains clinging to the door like a particularly pathetic limpet, and Cas raises an expectant eyebrow at him.

“Right,” Dean says, after much too long standing and staring at Cas’ small but gaining strength smirk. He marches back to the front of the Impala, sneering at the bitchy look Sam throws him over the roof.

The truck crunches to a stop beside the Impala, and Cas climbs out with jumper cables in hand, because of course. No one who willingly drives a truck would be caught dead without jumper cables squirreled away somewhere in the cab. Cas pops the hood and props it open, but then turns to the brothers, thrusting the leads at Dean.

“The AC is running,” Cas tells Sam, gesturing to the passenger side in clear invitation. Sam takes him up on the offer immediately, all smiles like he’s out here trying to scoop Dean’s best friend out from under him, the bastard.

“Why do you even have AC,” Dean grumbles, leaning into the Impala to attach the leads to the battery. “This thing is like 30 and it’s a _fucking truck_.”

Cas shrugs, clearly unimpressed with Dean’s slow roasted attitude. Rolling his eyes, Dean takes the cables to the truck. He’s reaching toward the positive post with the red clamp when the sky lets loose a truly threatening crack of thunder. Dean rears back to look at the sky, and realizes he’s in a race with the black clouds stampeding across the blue.

He slaps the clamps into place with probably less care than he should and, gesturing Cas back toward the cab, clambers into his own seat. Precious seconds are wasted on Cas revving the truck’s engine while Dean pleads so sweetly with his girl to please _please_ start. She does finally, with a groan that lets Dean know he’s done something truly terrible he’ll need to make up for sooner rather than later.

A strong wind has kicked up in the minute or two they’ve spent coaxing Baby’s battery back to life, and Dean yanks the jumper cable free of the engines with the desperate finesse of a snake wrangler with a feisty reptile. Sam jumps out of the truck and makes his way back into the Impala while Dean and Cas tend to their respective hoods.

One _creak-slam_ is followed by another and Dean is just skirting the front corner of the car when the sky opens up. He’s soaked instantly, the rain coming down in buckets.

“Seriously?” He shouts into the sky, though his voice is completely drowned out by the storm. “You couldn’t wait five more seconds?”

A low thrum of laughter burbles through the deluge, and Dean whips around to see Cas. His hair and clothes are plastered to him, a drowned rat, though Dean has no room to judge. The blue of his eyes is alight though, like the lightning in the sky is unfurling inside Cas too. Dean damn near shudders with the untamed power of it, thrown a little off his axis to see something so intensely primitive in Cas now. It’s been so long, Dean sometimes forgets that Cas is a storm wrapped up in a convenient human case.

“What are you laughing about?” He yells it, even though he suspects Cas could hear even a whisper if he wanted to.

“Can’t you feel it?” Cas’ eyes catch Dean’s, dancing like the lightning against the black clouds. His hand presses against Dean’s chest, where Dean’s heart is thundering. Slowly, Dean lifts his hand to cover Cas’, caught up in the storm.


	16. Strawberries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> doing my part to get strawberry rhubarb pie the recognition it deserves

Dean storms between the stands, hands in his pockets and shoulders hunched, trying not to feel like he sticks out like a sore thumb. Of course, if he just relaxed and stopped feeling so out of place, he’d probably look less out of place, but logic is for nerds.

The farmer’s market is also for nerds, nerds that Dean knows quite well in particular, but that hasn’t stopped him. He’s on a mission, damn it, and you go where the mission takes you.

The mission is for rhubarb, but that’s not important.

Or it is important, but not like _that_ important. It’s just that, Sam and Cas had spent the entire past week gushing about these incredible strawberries Sam got here. It doesn’t even make sense, because Cas didn’t even _eat_ any of the strawberries, but what the fuck does Dean know? Maybe they had a nerd connection about the way strawberries grow or something.

Anyway, now Dean can’t stop thinking about strawberry rhubarb pie. A classic, and one Dean doesn’t get to experience very often. So he needs rhubarb. And strawberries.

Enough for two pies, because Sam will act like it’s killing him but he’ll definitely eat like at least one whole pie and Dean will force a piece on Cas, who will whine nonstop about it tasting like molecules but will eat the whole thing anyway because he’s a lush.

Or maybe he just likes watching Dean stare at him slack jawed as he licks filling off a fork, who knows. That’s so not the point.

The point is, Dean needs rhubarb. And strawberries. And to get the hell away from this farmer’s market, pronto.


	17. Weapon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disclaimer: i know NOTHING about swords
> 
> also cas is a badass and honestly i won't entertain any other interpretations of him ok thanks bye

“Hey, hey, check out my sword,” Dean calls gleefully, lips pursing as he swings it experimentally. Beside him, Sam sighs heavily, and Castiel smiles to himself. Dean looks up at them, meets their eyes in turn, and waggles his eyebrows lasciviously. “Eh? Eh? Not bad right?”

Sam tucks hair behind his ear, giving his brother a wide berth as he makes for the hallway out of the room. “Don’t come crying to me when you cut your leg off.”

“I know how to use a sword,” Dean yells after him, put out. He gives the weapon another swing, but it’s feeble and disappointed. Watching the childish joy bleed out of Dean is too much, so Castiel steps forward slowly.

“Can I try it?” Holding out a hand expectantly, Castiel watches Dean. A peculiar half smile twists across his lips, something like pride and bemusement all at once.

Dean flips the sword around, holding it out hilt first. “Be my guest.”

Castiel wraps his fingers around the handle, rotating it side to side pensively. It appears to be a replica medieval sword, of the type commonly possessed by nobility in the 100 Years War. It’s a bastard sword, a hand-and-a-half sword, and Castiel can imagine Dean born in another time wielding a thing like this to great success.

“C’mon Cas,” Dean whines, like a child running thin on patience, “give it a swing!”

Slowly, so Dean can take in his motions, Castiel reverses his grip, closing his left hand around the handle and laying right palm flat against the blade, just under the cross. This sword doesn’t have a ricasso, but Castiel doesn’t intend to strike anything, so he doubts he’s in any danger of slicing his own flesh.

With his grip like this, the blade’s tip tilts down and though Castiel is certainly strong enough to hold the sword upright anyway, he finds himself happy enough to demonstrate this style to Dean. This was not a method for dueling swordsmen, but for fending off attackers with spears. His vertical motion is severely limited, but as Castiel steps forward, he snaps the blade to one side and then, whip fast, back to the other.

He hears Dean’s quiet sound of appreciation, and makes a few more rapid slicing motions, a horizontal slash that would gut an enemy combatant. Normally Castiel prefers shorter, lighter blades with more speed and mobility, but under Dean’s watchful gaze, he thinks he could grow to appreciate a bastard sword.

“It’s decently balanced,” Castiel says blandly, offering the hilt back to Dean. Satisfaction surges through him at Dean’s slow blink, the thick curl of his tongue over his lips.

“You been holding out on me, Cas?” Dean jokes, lowly. “Gotta thing for handling swords?”

Dean winks, as if his desire for carnal pleasures is too subtle for Castiel to notice. Assessing, Castiel draws his gaze down Dean’s body and back up. Dean moves with it as if his look is a physical caress.

“Dean,” he says, low and aloof, just to watch the shiver it drives through Dean. “You only had to ask.”


	18. Beach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i (sorta) jokingly refer to this as sastiel lite because it could be kinda if you squint. honestly though, i just really love sam and cas developing a friendship that doesn't require dean between them as a buffer 
> 
> also i think this one cuts off abruptly because sometimes i just don't care enough to finish things

Sam wakes in the stale air of the Impala’s backseat. Thin sunlight cuts through the windows, and Sam winces, pushing himself up and peering over the seat at his brother’s scrunched, sleeping form. Dragging a hand through his rapidly-getting-greasier hair, Sam scoots carefully out of the car, careful not to disturb Dean.

It’s early still, but the overcast sky makes it seem predawn almost. Quiet and dim. They’re parked along the sandy stretch of a lake shore, the water glass-like in its stillness. Sam walks to the nearest cluster of trees to take a leak, and then trots down to the water to rinse his hands. Though his fingers send ripples through the cool water, it’s still so clear that he can see myriad stones and sticks embedded in the sand.

He stands slowly, looking at the water as he turns back to the Impala, so he’s considerably spooked when he smashes into a person.

“Oh my god,” he exclaims, halfway between grabbing their shoulders to keep them upright and shying away before they can attack. He needn’t worry about either, however.

“Sam,” Castiel says calmly, by way of greeting.

“Cas! What are you doing here?”

“I-” Cas starts, head tilting thoughtfully. His eyes slide sideways, landing on the Impala. _Oh, of course_ , Sam thinks ruefully, _Dean_.

“He’s still sleeping,” Sam offers helpfully.

Nodding, Castiel returns his gaze to Sam. “Good,” he says, sincere. “Dean does not sleep enough.”

“Yeah, no,” Sam nods. While it warms him to see someone else caring about Dean, he always feels the tiniest twinge of jealousy. Sam considers Castiel his friend, too, and it always niggles at him just a pinch to see the profound bond at play. It’s a stupid feeling though, one that Cas doesn’t deserve to be subjected to, so Sam squashes it down. “Dean either sleeps like the dead or not at all.”

“You look tired, Sam,” Castiel says though, eyes narrowed. “Have _you_ been sleeping enough?”

It startles a laugh from him. Leave it to Cas to immediately turn Sam’s internal struggle into a joke. “Well, I miss my bed. Sleeping in the car isn’t as much fun now as it was when I was 20.”


	19. Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> asking for directions would be anathema to dean right?

Castiel watches the Gas n’ Sip on the corner of Elm and Second St. as the Impala cruises by it for the third time. “Are we lost?”

“No!” Dean slaps the steering wheel emphatically, glaring into the rear view mirror. “We are not lost.”

“Dean doesn’t get lost,” Sam offers over his shoulder, helpfully. Castiel offers Sam a commiserating look.

“Goddamn right I don’t,” Dean snaps, fingers clutching at the wheel.

“Perhaps we could ask someone for directions?” His suggestion is met with a long, horrified silence. Even the Impala seems to run quieter for a moment. Turned in the seat, Sam makes a slow, placating motion with his hands, as if Dean is a wild animal that needs gentling. Castiel rolls his eyes. “Let me out here,” Castiel commands, “and when you make your next circuit around the city you can pick me up.”

“Man, shut up,” Dean groans. “I don’t need directions.”

Uncomfortably shifting his gaze between them, Sam clears his throat tentatively. “It couldn’t hurt, Dean.”

“You too?” Dean’s betrayed yelp is punctuated by the Impala jerking to a halt as the streetlight chooses to turn red just before they get there.

Castiel takes the opportunity, scooting across the leather seat industriously and hopping out before the light changes again. The commotion coming from the car doesn’t bother him in the slightest as he steps up onto the sidewalk and strolls back toward the corner of Elm and Second St.


	20. Cry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can't write sex scenes, i can only imply them
> 
> #pray4sam

Sam jolts awake, heart thumping in his ears. His room is dark and still, the bunker quiet around him. Breathing shallowly, he listens, instinctively certain he’d been woken by a sound. Moving carefully, Sam tosses back his blankets and sets his bare toes on the cold floor. He scoops his gun up off the nightstand as he makes his way to the door, pausing with his ear against the wood.

There! A cry, weak and pained drifting down the hall. Sam twists the knob slowly, eyes straining in the dark as he makes his way down the hall. It could be nothing. Dean having a nightmare, maybe, or Cas watching weird night time TV a bit too loud. Something about it sounds off, though, and Sam can’t very well lie in bed and pretend he isn’t hearing anything.

He pauses outside Dean’s door, but after a few long seconds of silence, he continues on down the hall. The sound comes again, definitely a nearly stifled moan, and Sam hurries toward it. If he had to guess, he’d say the origin is the war room, or maybe the library. Images of his brother hurt and struggling, of Cas bloodied and straining flash through his mind unbidden. He brushes them aside, ridiculous as he knows them to be, and rushes to the war room.

As he steps into the dark room, he hears something coming from deeper in. Movement in the library. Sam pauses, listening. He hears labored breathing, a half swallowed groan. He inches closer. Dean makes another sound, stretched thin and reedy, like a whine. Sam is just about to open his mouth and call out to his brother, when he hears something scrape across the floor. A shoe, maybe?

Brows furrowed, Sam takes one more uncertain step forward. The familiar rumble and cadence of Cas’ voice drifts into the room. For a brief moment, Sam is filled with relief. If Cas is already here then whatever’s distressing Dean is likely already being handled.

Then something clicks in Sam’s head, and he clamps a hand over his mouth to hold back his horror.

“Yeah, Cas, jus’ like that,” Dean slurs, like he’s drunk, or drugged, or _just had proper speech fucked right the hell out of him_.

Sam turns on his heel and marches back toward his room, any concern about stealth gone up like smoke. It’s not like Dean or Cas are going to fucking notice his hasty departure, busy as they are.

Back in the safety of his room, Sam grabs his headphones and swiftly cues up whatever playlist is easiest to get to. With this extra layer of protection, Sam rips a sheet from a pad of paper and aggressively scrawls a note. Careful, aware he’s in dangerous territory, Sam carries the note to Dean’s door and tapes it to the front with more force than strictly necessary.

“I AM SO HAPPY FOR YOU BOTH,” it reads in large, frantic letters. “YOU ARE BURNING THAT TABLE BEFORE I _**EVER**_ RESEARCH ANYTHING EVER AGAIN.”


	21. Aloof

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i left my heart in season 5

After Stull, Dean clambers into the Impala and drives like the devil is on his tail. Except he isn’t, because Sam stopped him. Sam, his little baby brother Sammy, beat the devil at his own game. He saved the world.

And the only consolation prize is an eternity in Hell.

So Dean drives. White knuckles, pedal to the metal, eyes straight ahead. If he stops, if he so much as slows down, it’s all going to catch up to him. Dean can’t fucking live with it. He just can’t.

But this? He can keep doing this. Just driving. He’s riding a fine line between getting too far ahead and getting overtaken - between frenzied effort to free his brother, damn the consequences and lying down in the street until some asshole runs him the hell over. He can’t do either. All he can do is drive. Let his baby chew up the asphalt until there’s nowhere else to go.

Maybe by the time he gets there, the thought of fulfilling his promise to Sam won’t feel like digging into his own chest and peeling out his still beating heart.

He doesn’t know how many days it’s been, how many years Sam’s already spent screaming, when he hears the familiar sound of wings. Dean doesn’t look over. He knows who it is. What Cas wants now, after they’ve already said their farewells and gone their separate ways, is utterly meaningless to him.

“Dean,” Cas intones, low and disapproving. The leather of the steering wheel creaks under the force of Dean’s grip. Dean waits, teeth clenched, for Cas to tell him to stop, to tell him he’s going to get himself killed or worse, hit some innocent civilian out for a jog. He’s ready to snap, to take the swirl of guilt and rage and sorrow and nausea out on Cas, but the angel doesn’t say anything else.

Counting backwards from ten doesn’t help, but Dean does it anyway. Then he swallows - twice - and carefully loosens each of his fingers, one after another. He turns to look at Cas.

“What do you want?” His voice is ragged and raw. Dean swallows again and looks back to the road.

“You need rest,” Cas says, steady and calm. He probably means to sound soothing, but all he succeeds in doing is cracking open the flimsy box Dean’s stuffed all his thoughts and emotions in.

Dean slams on the brakes and throws the car into drive, right there in the middle of the street. It’s deserted, but even if it weren’t, who really cares? Without Sam, the Impala is just a moving mausoleum. Dean is just the only body in the tomb, waiting to decay.

He shoulders open the door and storms across the street, descending down the embankment and into the damp grass. Pacing, Dean tries to put it all back in the box, to gather up all the misery and hide it again. Instead, he finds himself swallowing around a knot of tears, breath too fast and eyes stinging.

Wings beat behind him, and Cas tries again. “This isn’t what Sam–”

“Don’t you dare,” Dean shouts, wheeling on Cas violently. “Don’t you even fucking say his name, you son of a bitch.”

“Dean,” Cas growls, and now there’s some strain in his voice. A touch of anger. Dean lunges at him, gets right up in his face and grabs him by the lapels, pushing him backwards.

“Don’t you try to talk to me like you understand how this feels,” Dean howls, vision wavering behind unshed tears. “Sam is in _Hell_ and I’m just supposed to go on like it doesn’t fucking matter? Pack a bag and shack up with some girl and her kid?”

“This won’t solve anything,” Cas insists, letting Dean yell in his face and push him around. His compliance only serves to incense Dean further.

“Don’t act like you understand, Cas. Don’t pretend you know how this feels.” It reminds Dean of something he said to Cas once before, what felt like a lifetime ago. “You don’t feel anything you heartless bastard.”

His voice cracks over the insult, and finally Dean cannot contain it any longer. Tears begin to fall, sliding hot and weak down his cheeks. His knees buckle and only his grip on Cas’ jacket keep him from collapsing totally. Hands grip his elbows, helping to hold him up.

“I find Sam’s fate cruel as well, Dean,” Cas whispers. Dean blinks through his tears. Cas’ face, at first glance, is as impassive as ever, but Dean can see the weight of all that’s happened in the pinch under Cas’ eyes and the tension in his jaw and in the depth of his sad, blue eyes. “If I could, Dean, I would bring him back right now.”

“Fat lotta good that does,” Dean chokes, leaning into Cas’ strong hands and letting himself be held.

“It’s a poor consolation,” Cas agrees.

He needs to get back to the Impala, even if only to move her off to the side of the road, but Dean holds still and lets himself mourn with the only person stupid enough to chase him down.


	22. Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> potential scene from the cyberpunk/cyberhunter??? au i’m 100% pretending to write. a bit more violent than the usual crap i post

Sweat stings at his eyes, and he can feel the blood dripping from his hair down the back of his neck. He shakes his head, trying to clear his vision without letting go of the death grip he has on his tire iron. It doesn’t help.

“If you continue to fight, Dean Winchester,” a cool feminine voice informs him, “you and your brother will only suffer more.”

“Fuck you,” Dean spits, taking a wobbly step back. He tries to hide the searching look he casts around the room. Wherever the voice is coming from, Dean can’t see it from here.

“Quite,” the voice says, from seemingly right in front of him. Dean rears back, tire iron snapping up, but there’s no one in the room with him. He stumbles back a step, slowly wobbling through a circle, trying to keep the terror pressed down and contained.

“F’you know my name, y’know I dun give up easy,” Dean slurs. He allows himself a moment of concern about his deteriorating speech, before swallowing that down with the terror.

“I know you were raised from Hell,” the voice says, soft and close, just over his shoulder. Dean whips around, swinging the tire iron with all his might. His swing cuts through nothing, spinning him right around and dropping him to one knee. He vision swims and he has to place one hand on the ground to steady himself. His other hand squeezes around the iron until his knuckles ache. “I know you-”

“Sophia.” A masculine voice, much deeper than the chilly soprano of Dean’s tormentor. His head turns toward the new voice, but even that movement sends the room spinning. Vertigo makes his stomach roil, and he sinks even closer to the ground, pressing his entire forearm to the floor.

Footsteps echo through the room, drawing close, and Dean bites his tongue, cursing his eyes when they don’t focus.

“Whu,” Dean tries, but opening his mouth feels like inviting vomit to the party, and he rescinds the offer with clamped teeth. He blinks hard instead, squinting at the figure now squatting over him.

“Sophia damaged you.” The voice is low and rugged, but the words are flat and stilted. Robotic, almost. Fingers comb through his hair, and Dean winces away as they touch the wet, broken skin on the back of his head. “Blood,” the new arrival murmurs contemplatively. Dean wants to roll his eyes, but he’s afraid they might never stop if he managed to get them moving.

A hand clamps around his bicep and hauls up. The world careens away from Dean, spinning out in an endless spiral before him. He’s being manhandled, but the world is a kaleidoscope of shadows and bright spots. Dean sags into it, the will to fight seeping out of him. Maybe that’s what’s dripping down his back, hot and slick. Determination, rather than blood.

They start moving. Dean is certain of it, because his stomach clenches and he has to swallow to keep bile and whatever’s left of his lunchtime burger from coming back up. The voice says something to him, but he can’t pick out the individual words.

The dark shadows encroaching on his vision are looking more and more welcoming, and Dean is just about to collapse into their loving embrace when a thought zings through him.

“Sam,” Dean croaks, struggling weakly against the stranger’s hold on him. His teeth come down on his tongue, sawing until he tastes blood and a jolt of adrenaline clears some of the sludge from his head.

“Yes,” the voice agrees blandly. “I have already retrieved Sam Winchester.”

“He safe?” It’s stupid, to trust whatever this thing says, but even a fresh burst of adrenaline is only temporary. Dean can already feel himself slipping toward unconscious again. A small part of him, the kindest part, gives him permission to believe whatever he hears next.

“Yes,” the voice says, firm. “As I intend for you to be.”


	23. Tower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't even do kid fic or even kid adjacent fic but here we are

Dean meets Sam’s eyes over the terrified woman’s shoulder, shaking his head. Sam gives him the subtlest nod and turns his attention back to the shaken woman, voice warbling as she describes her late wife. Dean doesn’t see Cas in the immediate area - presumably he’s sulking after being teased about his interview skills again - so he follows the low rumble of his voice into the living room. 

Sitting on the floor, on either side of a block tower, is Cas and a little girl, pink ribbons in her pigtails. Dean hangs back, watching the odd duo interact. Cas is listening intently as the child rambles on about the precise method of building her tower. She points to a location, informing Cas with the deep gravity of childhood that he needs to place a green block there. 

Dean’s not sure what he expected, but the wide, soft smile that stretches across Cas’ face as he very carefully follows the girl’s instructions was not it. The kid smiles back, leaning over her block tower to whisper in Cas’ ear. He nods, bringing a hand up to cup along the side of his mouth as he whispers back. She lets loose a sudden peal of laughter, ducking behind her tower, unexpectedly bashful and adorable for it. 

The smile on Cas’ face is so full of warmth and affection watching her, that Dean feels his knees go wobbly. He’s not sure he’s ever seen Cas so genuinely soft or happy. Cas turns toward him, unsurprised by his presence. Under the full force of Cas’ bright, lovely smile, Dean’s wobbly knees turn completely to jello and his heart kicks up to double time. 

“Hey,” Dean breathes, unable to stop himself from stumbling forward and sinking to his knees at Cas’ side. 

“Hello Dean,” Cas murmurs fondly. He gestures to the girl without taking his eyes from Dean. “Have you met Cassidy yet?”

“Cassidy, huh?” Dean chuckles, dragging his eyes away from the gentleness of Cas’ face. He smiles at the girl, who shuffles shyly, looking to Cas for support. Cas places his hand on Dean’s shoulder, heavy and warm. 

“Dean is a hero,” Cas tells her, gentle. “He’s here to find your mommy.”

Cassidy looks back and forth between them, big dark eyes watery. “Really?” 

Dean nods, heart twisting. He hates hunts with children stuck in the middle. Cas’ hand tightens briefly, and Dean leans into him, ever so slightly. “Really,” Dean confirms. “Me n’ Cas here, and my brother Sam.” He jabs his thumb toward the kitchen. “We’ll find your mommy.”

“Okay,” Cassidy agrees quietly. Cas shifts beside him, and Dean turns. Their eyes meet, and Dean is struck again by the depth of affection in Cas’ eyes. He reaches up without thought, curling his fingers around Cas’ hand on his shoulder. It’s only a brief touch, and Cas pulls his hand away from Dean’s shoulder entirely afterwards, but the warm, light feeling in his chest lingers long into the night.


	24. Taxi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> am i too mean to dean? probably

“I’m not running a damn taxi service,” Dean yelps, finally pushed past his (occasionally very thin) patience. 

“Well,” Sam exhales sharply, hands gesticulating and irritation scrunching up his forehead. 

“You insisted I travel with you,” Cas grumbles, “rather than drive myself.”

“I didn’t know you two ladies would need to make so many stops on the way,” Dean says, rolling his eyes in the rearview mirror. 

“You’re such a dick,” Sam mutters from the passenger seat. At the same time, Cas chimes in from the back with, “I don’t think gender has anything to do with this discussion.”

“Seriously?” Dean looks around the car, incredulous. “I gotta deal with the bitching from both of you?”

It’s a testament to all the time they’ve spent together, that Sam and Cas manage to turn the same exasperated, disappointed looks at Dean. He withstands the onslaught for about five seconds before caving in with a massive sigh. 

“Fine,” he bites out, gripping the steering wheel overly tight. “Make a fucking list. You wanna go to historical museum while we’re at it? Maybe stop to look at the big fuck off grain elevator in town?”

“No, I have no present need to visit the historical museum or the Midway Co-op,” Cas says with a seriousness that very well may be humor. Dean can’t quite tell. “If _you_ want to visit those places, however, I’d be happy to accompany you.”

Sam ignores them both, apparently making a list of stops, to Dean’s quiet horror. They drive on in silence, Dean steering them deeper into the town proper without any real destination, until Sam finally speaks up. He guides Dean around the streets until they reach their first stop and Dean pulls into a parking space. 

Sam is out of the car almost immediately, but then, this is one of his requests anyway, so who knows if Cas even wants to go in. He turns, arm stretched across the back of the seat, and raises an eyebrow. 

“You going with him?”

Cas shifts around, hands patting down each of his pockets until he finds what he’s looking for. He waves the dollar bill (and Dean had no idea Cas even _had_ any money on him) in Dean’s face before tucking it into the chest pocket of Dean’s shirt. 

“For your mediocre taxi service,” Cas informs him, humor in the corners of his eyes, before he slides out of the car and trots after Sam.


	25. Search

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi i don't write porn because it makes me squirm but lmao i did it anyway kind of i guess YOU'RE WELCOME

The door frame jabs into his spine painfully and Dean groans, arching away from it. Cas shoves him back, palm burning against Dean’s sternum. 

“Quiet,” Cas commands softly, breath humid at the base of Dean’s throat. 

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean moans, pawing at Cas’ hips with sloppy desire. He finally settles on flattening his palms against Cas’ lower back and rolling his whole body forward in a wave. The resulting hitch in Cas’ breath makes Dean’s eyes roll back in his head, and he rolls into the hard line of Cas’ body again. 

The hand melting through Dean’s chest slides down, steady all the way to the bulging front of his jeans. It’s such a delightfully soft touch, and Dean whines desperately, pushing his hips into the contact. 

“Dean,” Cas warns, fingers of his free hand curling around the underside of Dean’s jaw and turning his head. “Sam’s going to hear you.” 

Something about the warning, or about the easy way Cas takes control, makes Dean’s head spin. He moans again, even louder, and Cas presses their lips together, muffling the sound. As he pulls back, Cas presses one long finger over Dean’s mouth. “Quiet.”

Dean nods stupidly, even after Cas pulls his hand away and sinks slowly to his knees. Dean buries his fingers in Cas’ hair immediately, lungs heaving with a mix of effort and anticipation. The zipper on his jeans feels 10 miles long as Cas begins to unzip it, although that may just be the glacially slow pace Cas is setting. 

“Please,” Dean pleads softly, tugging at Cas’ hair. It does nothing to speed Cas up, as he slides first Dean’s jeans and then his boxers down. Cas exhales on the head of Dean’s dick, and Dean’s head snaps back, cracking against the wall. The pain makes him whimper, the sound thinning into a whine as Cas begins blowing him in earnest. 

“Cas, Cas, yeah,” Dean chokes out, a hushed mantra of desperate pleasure. When his belly grows tight and his every breath is straining, he gasps, “Cas, I’m gonna… Gonna…”

“Dean? Cas?” Sam’s holler is like a bucket of ice water dumped on both their heads. Dean sucks in a breath so hard, he thinks he might pass out. Cas is frozen too, Dean’s dick encircled by his lips. Their eyes meet, a matching mix of panic and confused arousal on their faces. Silently, they hold a whole, frantic argument that Cas wins by flicking the head of Dean’s cock with his tongue, which is absolutely cheating. 

Dean gulps, clearing his throat softly. “Yeah,” he hollers back, mentally patting himself on the back for not sounding completely fucking wrecked. Slowly, Cas begins to move again, up and down the length of Dean’s dick. Dean’s brain simultaneously screeches at the top of its lungs and turns off all higher functions. 

“Have you guys found it yet?” Sam’s voice sounds closer now, and Dean’s heart gallops up into his throat. Cas, the unhelpful bastard, doesn’t stop. 

“Nope,” Dean shouts, voice only a little strangled. 

“Alright, well, I’m going to look over this way,” Sam calls, voice fading as he, blessedly, moves away. “Shout if you find it!”

“Will do,” Dean chokes, meaning to glare down at Cas but sort of squinting weakly at him instead. Cas just smirks, as best he can with a dick in his mouth, and sucks extra hard.


	26. Writer's Choice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “i know cas is madly in love with you so i made you ridiculously jealous for laughs ha take that dean” - sam probably

Dean steps through the doorway and stops in his tracks, hand stuffed into the depths of a potato chip bag. 

“What the hell?”

Sam and Cas turn to look at him as one, sitting cross legged on the floor together. A wreath of flowers sits crooked on Sam’s head and a second, partial wreath is taking shape in Cas’ hands. 

“Dean,” Cas says into the ensuing silence. 

“What are you _doing_? What’s with the…” He trails off, gesturing aggressively at his own head with greasy fingers. 

“None of your business,” Sam answers primly, effectively cutting Cas off before he can spill the details. Sam is clearly still miffed about losing the most recent Winchester Prank battle.

“Cas?” Dean’s pretty sure Cas will side with his _favorite_ Winchester if push comes to shove. Looking between the brothers awkwardly, Cas finally settles on lifting the U of flowers demonstratively. 

“Would you like one Dean?”

“Would I? Wha– No!” Dean splutters. He’s so not into this free love, hippie crap. If Sam and Cas want to braid each other’s hair, they’re more than welcome to it. 

“Suit yourself,” Sam says, still pointedly not looking at Dean. So the peroxide in the shampoo trick might have been a little bit of a low blow, but the terrible washed out color of Sam’s hair is hilarious, so Dean doesn’t feel too guilty. 

Cas returns to weaving flowers together, performing some complicated hand motion that Dean can’t be bothered to figure out. He's about to make his get away before their peace ‘n love infects him, but then Sam reaches out and tucks his fingers neatly into the cradle of Cas’ hands. Vision tunneling on the sight, Dean freezes, a strange, hot flush rushing through him. _Hey, that’s mine_ , he wants to say. _If I can’t touch him like that, you **definitely** can’t touch him like that_. His throat constricts with feeling, and Dean has to swallow multiple times to clear it. 

Of course, as soon as the wayward stem is corralled, Sam pulls away, but they’re still sitting so close together that Cas’ hair brushes Sam’s forehead. Neither of them pay him any attention as he stands there gawking like an idiot, listening to his heart racing. Gathering up all his stupid, fake as hell bravado, Dean makes himself swagger closer, convinced he looks more like a drunken buffoon than the suave rebel he'd like to be. It’s not like he can admit that he’s ragingly jealous of his little brother for _touching Castiel’s hand_. 

“Where’d you even learn that?” He tries for casual, or even downright dismissive, but his voice kinda squeaks a little. He sees Sam’s lips twitch, barely concealing a laugh. 

“Pinterest,” Cas says absently. He holds the wreath up slightly, and Sam reaches to help again, dragging his fingertips over Cas’ palms with deliberate thoroughness. 

Dean staggers another couple steps forward, feeling a little frayed at the edges. How dare Sam stroke Dean’s angel with such indulgent physicality? 

“What the hell is that,” Dean mutters, dropping to the floor so close to Cas that their shoulders collide, sending them swaying side to side. Sam gives him a dirty look but, with Cas happily leaning into his side, Dean just smirks smugly in return. 

Castiel ignores their silent spat, or misses it completely, and makes quick work of the rest of his flower wreath. He pauses, looking down at the pile of flowers on the floor. 

“Last one,” Sam says, shuffling flowers around gently. “Which one, do you think?”

Cas hums thoughtfully, the sound vibrating from his shoulder into Dean’s. He shifts, and Dean drags his eyes up. 

“Which do you like Dean?”

“You,” spills out of Dean’s mouth, his brain scrambling immediately into damage control. He clears his throat, correcting himself gruffly. “You pick.”

With a nod, Cas pushes the pile of flowers around before selecting a small white and pink blossom, 5 petals like a star. He weaves it with the rest and holds the finished product up proudly. 

“Looks good, Cas,” Sam tells him, corners of his eyes crinkling with warmth. 

Cas half turns to show it more directly to Dean. He watches Dean intently and after a long few breaths of staring into his eyes, Dean looks at the ring of flowers. 

“Yeah, uh, real nice, buddy,” he coughs. Palms slick with nervous sweat, Dean’s motor mouth refuses to quit. “Why’d you pick that flower?”

Face soft with obvious fondness, Cas makes a considering sound in his throat. “No particular reason,” he says finally, and plops the crown on Dean’s head without ceremony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ps it’s an arbutus flower


	27. Writer's Choice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m a big fan of saileen but not a big fan of at least 50% of supernatural canon

It’s early morning and Dean hasn’t dragged himself out of bed yet, so Sam allows himself to feel safe opening youtube and searching for ASL tutorials. He leaves one earbud dangling, so he can listen for Dean shambling down the hall, and focuses on the video.

Foolishly, he forgot about Cas.

“Have you developed an interest in American Sign Language, Sam?”

Sam leaps a mile in his chair. “Cas,” he heaves, like it’s been punched out of him, ripping out his earbud and slapping his laptop shut. “Jeez, Dean is right. You do need a bell.”

Cas gives him a squinty look, confused or concerned. Deciphering the nuances of Cas’ expressions are more Dean’s forte than his. After a moment, Cas gives it up, leaning back and gesturing to Sam’s closed laptop. “Is there someone you wish to speak with?”

Sam could deny it - Cas would probably let him get away with it - or he could tell the truth. The truth would be nice, because it’s always nice not to have to hide things and it’s not like Cas will judge him. What he will do, though, is tell Dean, and Dean is not nice.

He decides to take the safe route and deny everything. “Actually,” he makes himself chuckle here, for effect, “I don’t know how I got to that video. Autoplay, you know?”

Cas’ eyes narrow, clearly disbelieving, but he doesn’t push. “Yes, I’m aware of the autoplay feature.”

Sam keeps a smile plastered on his face, even when his cheek starts twitching from the effort, and eventually Cas excuses himself. With a gusty sigh of relief, Sam moves his chair so he’s in a more defensible position and returns to his study. He tries not to let himself get distracted thinking about Eileen, but his mind still wanders to her strong but slender fingers, repeating the spoken words in her native language.

He’s not sure how long it’s been before Dean comes tromping into the room. He’s got a mug of coffee in his hands - normal - and a massive, shit eating grin on his face - less normal. Sam checks the time (yup, too early for nonsense) and apprehensively looks back to his brother.

“Hey,” Dean says, all too chipper.

“Hey,” Sam returns, neutral. Sam’s eyes scan the entryway behind Dean, but there’s no angel trailing at Dean’s heels. “Where’s Cas?”

Dean shrugs, but a peculiar softness settles over his face for just a moment at the mention. He leans his hip against the table, kitty corner from Sam, and his smile goes sharp and predatory. “Learning something new?”

Sam grits his teeth, smiling tightly at Dean. Cas is such a tattletale.

“Nope,” he says simply. Dean raises his eyebrows, taking a slow sip of coffee, judging Sam over the rim of the mug the entire time. “Just researching,” Sam tells him blandly. He checks the time, mentally calculating. He has a sneaking suspicion he knows the series of events between Cas leaving the room and Dean entering with coffee in hand.

“Yeah. Research, huh?” Dean smirks like a cat that got the canary.

Sam’s not going to take this lying down. He pulls out the big guns, lack of evidence be damned. “Did Cas bring you coffee in bed, Dean?”

Dean chokes.

A surge of victory surges through him. Sam continues, whining like he’s 8 years old again. “He never does that for _me_. Why doesn’t Cas love me, too?”

“Shut up, Sammy,” Dean grunts, pushing to his feet. The blush burning across his face makes his freckles stand out more than usual. Sam bites back his smirk, lifting his eyebrows in innocent confusion.

Dean marches out of the room, and Sam smiles to himself, returning to his latest ASL tutorial.


	28. Writer's Choice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think drabble 2 was horse au… this is just more of that. i 100% have how they get together and everything written out in my brain but i’m just going to keep writing little drabbles about the fluff that happened after that ok bye

Dean is tense, standing at the finish. He can see the last three jumps, four if he really cranes his neck, but no flash of the blue and beige helmet cover Cas is wearing today. It’s raining lightly, just enough to make the footing utter crap, and he’s overheard the officials at the finish line confirming three falls via their walkie-talkies since Cas started his ride. At this point, Dean doesn’t even really care about Cas’ chances of winning the event, as long as he makes it around the cross country course unscathed.

It doesn’t help his nerves any to know that Cas is riding one of his younger, less experienced horses. Or that the very same horse was practically vibrating out of his skin with anticipation maybe, oh, twenty minutes ago. Cas had seemed totally cool, perfectly collected, even as his horse jigged and danced around the starting box, but Dean had damn near chewed a hole through his cheek watching.

The walkie-talkies at the finish crackle to life, and Dean surreptitiously leans closer to eavesdrop. “Rider 13 clear over fences 26 and 27,” the voice on the radio announces. Thirteen is Cas’ number, and Dean doesn’t know if he wants to collapse with relief or holler with pride. Either way, Dean walked the course with Cas earlier and he knows jump 27 is just around the corner from the finish.

He trots up to the white rope marking the course’s laneway, stretching up to watch for Cas’ two toned helmet in the distance. He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding when he finally sees it, followed shortly by the rest of Cas and his leggy, dark gray thoroughbred. They clear the distant fence, and then immediately disagree on where they should be going, judging by the way that big, gray blockhead starts moving more sideways than forward, bouncing like a deer.

“C’mon you son of a bitch,” Dean grumbles, eyes trained on the pair at the far end of the field. “Just behave for the last three jumps, would ya?”

They work through their problems (Dean knows from experience - when Cas gets serious about an argument, it behooves the other party to shut up and listen, lest Cas get his smite on), and charge across the wet grass. Dean feels himself tensing up before each of the last three jumps, trying to will this course to be over already.

They clear the last fence and Dean turns to power walk (if he jogs someone will definitely pull him aside and chew him a new asshole and he really doesn’t need that) further from the finish. Cas and his big, idiot horse still go flying past him, even with the power walking, but he can see Cas trying to ease his horse down to a walk. Dean doubts he’d be able to catch up, except Cas turns his horse in a circle every couple of steps, until Dean pulls even with Cas’ leg.

“You survived,” Dean announces brightly, setting his hand on Cas’ calf. He keeps it there, half jogging to keep up with the horse’s rapid march back toward the trailer.

“I suppose,” Cas agrees, looking down at Dean with an expression of mixed relief and exhilaration. “He almost lost his footing at the fifth fence and never managed to focus again.”

Despite his harsh critique, Cas gives the horse a fond stroke. Dean shakes his head, clamping a hand over his chest dramatically. “I’m gonna have a heart attack watching your events, dude.”

Snorting a laugh, Cas plucks Dean’s baseball hat off his head by the bill and leans down expectantly. Even half running to keep up, Dean can’t resist a kiss. It’s a terrible example of one. They just kind of mash their faces together, Dean’s lips on Cas’ chin, but it makes Cas laugh, bright and loud, so Dean’ll take it.


	29. Writer's Choice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sometimes i just really appreciate dialogue i guess

“Caaas.”

“Don’t whine, Dean. It’s unbecoming.”

“But it’s not fair.”

“This isn’t a matter of fairness.”

“She’s _my_ baby.”

“Then consider this babysitting, if you must.”

“Dude, that’s a lame joke.”

“Are you sure you wish to insult me _right now_?”

“Cas.”

“Dean.”

“Busted leg or not, I will–”

“You will rest, as you’ve been directed, until you’ve healed.”

“…this is dumb.”

“Taking your frustration out on me will not help you heal faster.”

“I don’t care about healing–”

“Yes you do.”

“–I just miss driving my car.”

“Dean, I promise, your car will not come to harm in my care.”

“Yeah.”

“Dean.”

“Y’sure you don’t have enough mojo to just…”

“I’m sorry, Dean.”

“S’okay, Cas. And hey, it’s not so bad letting you drive my car.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

“Mhmm, kinda awesome, actually.”

“I believe the pain medication is beginning to take effect.”

“My baby, my angel, and the open road…”

“You’re mumbling, Dean.”

“Yeahhh. S’alright.”


	30. Writer's Choice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my thought process was as follows:  
> what’s the worst thing that could happen to dean? –> gluten free diet
> 
> also in classic me style i ran out of steam like 2 paragraphs from the end

He’s not sure when his life went so wrong. No longer can Dean Winchester grab the first available six pack from the grocery store. Forty, in addition to sore joints, decreasing muscle mass and increasing waist size, had gifted Dean with the worst curse he could ever imagine: the need for a gluten free diet. 

So that’s why Dean is slumping around in a yuppy craft beer store, names of gluten free breweries written in Sam’s messy scrawl on the back of an old receipt. He looks longingly at all the cans he can’t drink anymore, even if he would have scorned them for being hipster microbrews a year ago. A year ago, Dean could eat burgers and pasta and pizza without worrying about the unfortunate side effects. 

Heaving a dejected sigh, Dean grabs a six pack of beer from a gluten free brewery that _might_ be okay (under duress, which is every day for Dean now), and then grabs a second, because what the hell. 

“Happy birthday me,” he mutters, as he makes his way to the cashier. He’d never say he’s hurt that he has to buy his own beer on his birthday, but he is kinda miffed about it. Only because this stupid fancy beer is way more expensive than regular beer and the drive is kind of a pain in the ass. Especially in the snow. His baby is a hell of a girl, but she’s really not the best option in a snow storm. 

Cas had offered the use of his truck, which is like _sweet_ or something, but Dean’s never one to back down from a challenge. And half retired as they are these days, he doesn’t get to put the same amount of time behind the wheel as he used to. He’s grateful for his comfortable bed and warm shower and family close at hand, but damned if he doesn’t miss the road sometimes. 

The drive back is slow and the roads are slick, but Dean has good tunes and a few more hours of good light, so it isn’t so bad. The mixtape Cas had painstakingly made for him just a couple weeks ago (and didn’t it just fill Dean up with warm bubbles to have Cas around for both Christmas and his birthday this year) has an eclectic mix of pop music Dean swears up and down he doesn’t like, that one Taylor Swift song he did actually own up to liking that one time, and some classic rock tunes that never go out of style. He will never let Sam listen to it, but it’s quickly become his favorite tape. 

Apparently drinking fake beer has made him completely soft. 

Dean gets home with daylight to spare, tromps down the steps and makes his way to the kitchen. He’s contemplating making burgers, even though a single hamburger bun will probably ruin his day, when Sam comes flying down the hall and stops in front of him. Dean gives him a bemused look, peeks around his shoulder toward the kitchen, and looks back at Sam. It smells, suspiciously, like something was left in the oven until it reached just this side of blackened. 

“Sam?” 

Sam laughs nervously, dragging his fingers through his hair. “Hey,” he kinda sings it, dancing in place like his feet are burning. “You have any luck?”

Dean lifts a hand, showing off the pair of six packs hanging from his fingers. “Are you and Cas starting fires again?”

Sam’s smile goes extra wide, to match the slightly crazed look in his eye. “You know what,” he says, reaching down to grab the beer from Dean, “why don’t you go relax and I’ll put these in the fridge for you.”

“Sammy,” Dean warns, watching his brother backing down the hall at mach speed. Sam disappears through a doorway, and Dean counts to ten before continuing down the hall, which is when Cas comes stumbling out of the kitchen. As soon as he gains his footing, he sends a smite worthy glare back through the kitchen doorway. Dean snorts a laugh, and Cas wheels toward him. 

“Hello Dean,” he says, brushing his hands down his front. It’s such a human expression of embarrassment that Dean can’t help but grin. 

“You two trying to burn this place down again?”

“No,” Cas damn near yelps. He scoots close, practically nose to nose with Dean, though he keeps his hands by his sides. “We wanted to do something for you,” Cas admits quietly. “For your birthday.”

“Do I have to fix the oven again?” Dean had almost banned them from touching it the last time. 

“No,” Cas shakes his head. “It smells worse than it is.”

“Alright,” Dean shrugs. It’s his birthday. He can worry about it later. He hooks his fingers in Cas’ belt loops and pulls him the last few inches closer. Now Cas lifts his hands, curling them loosely around Dean’s waist. It’s a warm embrace, familiar and comforting. 

“Happy birthday, Dean,” Cas says against Dean’s jaw, palms smoothing across Dean’s lower back. 

“Not yet,” Dean smirks, dropping a playful slap on Cas’ ass. “But I’m sure we’ll get there.”

Cas responds by grabbing one ass cheek and squeezing until Dean whimpers. Panting into Cas’ hair in the aftermath is a little embarrassing, but hell, if that’s what he has to look forward to after this burnt out husk of a meal he’s about to choke down, then he doesn’t actually care that much. He brushes his fingers under Cas’ chin to tilt his head up, and they meet in the middle for a sickeningly saccharine kiss. 

Fake beer. Completely soft. It’s definitely a thing. 

“Cas?” Sam’s voice echoes down the hall, and it sounds like an SOS to Dean. Cas steps back, snatches up Dean’s hand, and hauls him down the corridor. They stop at the doorway so Cas can peer in without Dean seeing anything. Dean tolerates this entirely because he can still feel the sting of Cas’ grip on his rear. 

“Ready?” Cas asks. He must get a physical confirmation, because Cas yanks Dean into the room with very little flourish. 

The first thing he notices is not Sam’s ginormous head, resting overtop his gargantuan body as he Vanna White’s the kitchen table, but the oven, cracked open to vent. He doesn’t get a chance to really inspect it because Cas drags him toward the table, which is immediately suspicious to Dean. It’s not his fault Sam and Cas are notoriously dangerous around heating elements. 

“Burgers, side salad - do _not_ complain, Dean, I swear to God - and,” Sam practically twirls on his way to the counter, jazz handing at what is very obviously a pie, “apple pie.”

“Gluten free,” Cas announces, filled with pride. He gives Dean’s hand a little shake for emphasis. 

“Yeah,” Sam says, smirking. In the baby voice he definitely uses when he’s talking to dogs, he adds, “for our special wittle boy.”

Dean flips Sam off automatically, getting a look at the spread on the table. He’s surprised to note that the burgers do not look like hockey pucks and there’s a little bowl of grated cheese for the salad. A few minutes later, he’s even more surprised to discover it all tastes pretty good too, which is something of a minor miracle. 

The pie, when that finally makes its way to the table, is a little lopsided and a little black around the edges, but otherwise totally fine. Filling has bubbled out of the top, leaving a tacky fruit and sugar river rushing over the edge of the pie plate. (Dean assumes that is the reason their kitchen smells like someone lit a bag of sugar on fire.) Sam and Cas wait with bated breath as Dean takes the first bite. It tastes surprisingly like apple pie, which Dean honestly didn’t expect, and he gives them a thumbs up as he chews. Shoving another forkful in his mouth doesn’t stop him from noticing the pleased smiles Sam and Cas give each other. 

He’s got the two people he loves most in the world and an apple pie that isn’t going to leave him hunched over on the toilet in half an hour. All in all, it’s probably the best birthday he’s had since he turned four. 

Maybe things haven’t gone so wrong after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, that's the end of the 30 day prompts. I'm starting (eventually) a deancas bingo, so i'm sure there will be more to come eventually.
> 
> hope you enjoyed any of these drabbles and if you'd like to share any one of them, they're all available on [my tumblr](https://hrimthur.tumblr.com/tagged/30-day-make-writing-a-habit-again-challenge)!


End file.
